After Frederick left, Alexander stood alone in his room, contemplating the day ahead. In a few hours, he would propose to Miss Coleridge, her name was Ophelia, wasn’t it? He’d overheard one of the brothers say it. Ophelia Coleridge. Soon to be Ophelia Montclaire, Duchess of Montclaire.
The names felt wrong in his mind, like trying to force pieces from different puzzles together.
His valet entered with a selection of coats. “For the occasion, Your Grace?”
Alexander surveyed them with the intensity of a general reviewing battle plans. “The blue. No, the grey. Actually…” He paused. “Which would be least intimidating to a young lady?”
Sinclair blinked, clearly unprepared for this consideration. “The blue, Your Grace? It’s less severe.”
Less severe. Was that what he was aiming for now? To be less severe?
“The blue it is then.”
As Sinclair helped him into the coat, Alexander caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked what he was—a duke, wealthy, powerful, cold. Everything the Coleridges despised. Everything their daughter would have to accept.
“Your Grace?” Sinclair ventured. “Might I suggest…”
“Yes?”
“A ring, Your Grace. For the proposal.”
Alexander stared at him. “A ring.”
“It’s customary, Your Grace.”
Of course. A ring. He’d been so focused on getting through the ordeal, he’d forgotten the basic requirements. “The family vault. There must be something suitable.”
“The late duchess’s pearl ring, perhaps? It’s been reset several times over the generations.”
His grandmother’s ring. The thought of it on a Coleridge finger made his jaw clench. But then, everything about this made his jaw clench.
“Fetch it.”
The ring, when produced, was elegant in its simplicity; a pearl surrounded by diamonds, nothing ostentatious but clearly valuable. It would probably be the finest thing Miss Coleridge, Ophelia, had ever worn.
He pocketed it with the same enthusiasm one might pocket a stone and left.
The carriage ride to Coleridge House seemed both eternal and far too brief. Every rotation of the wheels brought him closer to his fate, to the moment when he’d bind himself forever to a family he’d been taught to despise since childhood.
The morning was growing warmer, the sun climbing higher, and still he sat in his carriage outside their gates, unable to make himself give the order to proceed.
“Your Grace?” His coachman’s voice carried a note of concern. “Shall we continue?”
“Yes.” The word came out sharp, decisive. “Yes, proceed.”
Chapter Five
The house looked exactly as it had yesterday; oversized, over-decorated, and trying too hard. Like everything about the Coleridges, it practically shouted its worth to anyone who’d listen.
Except her, a voice in his mind noted. She didn’t shout anything. She barely whispered.
The butler who answered the door wore the same expression of barely concealed panic as yesterday. “Your Grace. You’re expected.”
The drawing room, when he entered, was a study in barely controlled chaos. The four brothers were arranged strategically around the room like guards at their posts. The mother sat near the fireplace, embroidery in her lap but clearly not attending to it. And there, in her usual corner, sat Ophelia.
She wore a different dress today...pale yellow that should have made her look sallow but somehow didn’t. Her hair was arranged more carefully than yesterday, though still nothing fashionable. She looked, he realized, like someone who’d tried to look special but didn’t quite know how.
“Your Grace.” Robert’s greeting had all the warmth of a December wind. “Punctual, I see.”
